


Sunlight Echoes

by Mercia



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - Mutants, Alternate Universe - Wings, Childhood, Family Fluff, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, Kid Sam Wilson, Mother-Son Relationship, Pain, Sam Wilson Can Talk to Birds, Wingfic, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-02 06:22:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20271364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mercia/pseuds/Mercia
Summary: It's not Sam's fault he has feathers.





	Sunlight Echoes

Sammy never gets to go to school like Sarah or Gideon. It's not fair he'll think petulantly at five and six and ten and eleven, even when his siblings complain after a long day. It's not fair.

It's not Sam's fault he has feathers.

* * *

When Sammy is four, his mama takes them to the countryside for the weekend. A little seafront town. A five hour train ride from Harlem. It's beautiful, with its salty fresh air and peaceful sounds. There are beaches and sandy shores and rocky caves. And cliffs. Tall and devastating and beautiful, with sharp walls, steep climbs and sudden drops. And Darlene Wilson has got three small children and only two hands.

So imagine her fright when little Sammy gets just a little too close to the edge. There's a bird, a peregrine falcon, big and grand and with fiery eyes, hopping just lazily near the end and Sam has slipped out of her grasp, is letting go to coo and say hello, the way four year olds often do.

"Stay close, Sammy," she warns her middle child softly.

Beside her, a six year old Gid has taken his brother's place and takes to clutching her hand. He's a little less adventurous than Sammy but has just as much heart.

"Yeah be careful Sammy," says Gid, imitating his mother. "It's a long way down."

Naturally, Sammy sticks out his tongue, rolls his eyes and continues to chase his falcon, disregarding it -- like both children and adults do when they think they know better. Which Sammy thinks he does.

"I'm gonna call you Redwing," decides Sam, mostly to himself. The bird tilts it's head in that inquisitive avian way and caws loudly.

And hops a little closer to the edge and Sam follows, hopping along behind it eagerly as well. And hops a little further from his mother.

_Why're you hopping?_ Sam thinks to himself._ You're a bird, ain't ya? Why don't you fly?_

And then, as if the falcon has read his mind and understood, it suddenly takes off, spreads it's wings and soars, arching into the air.

Right over the edge of the cliff.

And, like a lot of small children might, Sam's little feet follow, stumbling over themselves and the slightly marshy ground. Entranced and unthinking. Little red rainboots and all.

Right over the edge of the cliff.

Darlene Wilson is fishing out sandwiches for lunch one second, and the next she hears tiny Sarah Wilson shriek and her youngest son nowhere to be seen.

"Sammy?" she hears Gideon say distantly, and hears her daughter start to cry. Croaky and high pitched because even she, with her three year old brain, seems to know what has happened.

The sounds from the beach -- the crashing waves, the caw of gulls, the rippling thrashes of wind-- washes away. Her mouth feels dry. Everything slips out of focus and fixes on the spot her youngest son and the falcon were last. Right near the drop.

"Sam?" she hears herself whisper this time, though she cannot feel her mouth move. Nor her chapped lips or her lead tongue.

But she hears herself again: screaming this time, voice cracking through the air. Gideon is crying now too.

"_Sammy!_"

Perhaps this is just a dream. Surely, this cannot be real. In a few seconds she will gasp awake in her the bed and creep over to her children's room and weep, kiss Sammy on the head and hold all her children close to her chest and vow to never let them go.

Sammy…Sammy doesn't really remember much of the falling, he figures he blacked out or something. But he looks down and the jagged rocks at the bottom are -- not getting any closer but further away. His heart is pounding in his ears and the rush of the wind tunnels through them to the other side.

And then he registers the strong beating of wings. The controlled, steady lilt of his path in the air.

Looks up and sees his falcon (_Redwing_) clutching his shirt with sharp claws and looking at him with a glint in their eyes.

Sammy is flying. Kinda.

_Awesome, _he thinks, and looks down again. It does not look quite so scary.

Redwing, his bird who _saved_ him, drops him off back on the cliff but not quite so close the edge. Wisely and politely, Sammy says, "Wow, thank you," because his mother has always taught him to say please and thank you.

The bird catches his eye, then, and looks at him with his golden eyes. Sammy suddenly thinks he hears something akin to _"you're welcome. Be more careful next time," _ring through his mind. His jaw drops.

"Did'ya hear that?" he gasps, turning to his family in astonishment. "Tha' birdy just talked to me!"

But Sammy's family haven’t been listening. Darlene Wilson is staring agape at the bird who saved her son and feels overwhelmed by it. She'd dropped the sandwiches a few seconds earlier; dropped them when she'd seen her Sammy had dropped first; but now she has her hands free. Free to cling onto her little boy and never let him go.

Sam's mama grips onto the back of Sam's shirt for the rest of the day, even when they make it back to the train, and the whole journey home as well. She holds on tight to Sarah and Gid too, and whispers as many prayers, thanking, that someone above that seems to be looking out for her children. Her small, tiny, silly children.

When they finally arrive home -- a nice little three-bedroom, which Darlene is thankful for everyday -- Gid and Sarah's tears have all dried up, the shock of the day long forgotten and behind them in that easy way children have. It's dark out and long past the children's bedtime. 

Sammy's mother tucks him into bed, and its only then that she allows herself to weep. She does not mean to wake her son, but she does anyway. And her son crawls up into her lap and hugs his mama tight with little arms and gives her cheeks tiny kisses, soft and light.

"Sorry mama." he whispers to her solemnly, after a moment. "I won't chase the birds no more, promise."

But Darlene looks at her son, sleepy and tired eyed but kind and so gentle, and shushes him. Shakes her head. "Oh Sammy," she replies, looking forlorn. "My baby boy, don't ever worry about that. If you wanna chase falcons, chase 'em. But you only gotta promise me you'll look where you're running before you run."

Because Sammy is four. Little kids are supposed to be free to run happily and carelessly, and chase birds if they wish. Darlene Wilson will be damned if she lets a few seconds get in the way of her children living happy. Living free.

"Okay mama. I promise."

When he gets home, Paul kisses his wife on the lips, short and chaste and tender, and Darlene sits him down and tells him all things which have conspired today. Paul does not cry, but he frowns, clenches his knuckles and peeks into the rooms of his children, and pecks their cheeks, and thinks long and hard about how precious they each are. How fragile.

He decides then, and promises it to himself silently, as he had when they'd each been born only a few years ago but he'll keep promising it, that he is gonna protect them, see them grow up fine and strong and brilliant.

Darlene takes her husband's hand when they finally settle into bed for the night and holds tight.

The morning after, over oatmeal with two much honey, Sam has started to cry. He's crying because "Redwing really did speak to me, and I ain't a liar!" and Darlene Wilson looks over the breakfast table tenderly and feels relief, because this is normal. This is good.

It's only a couple hours later of Sammy still being insistent of a damned bird _speaking_ to him, that she pays any mind.

Maybe it's the shock, she thinks to herself. Maybe he's in shock and thinks he heard something impossible. Or perhaps his big four year old imagination had cooked it up and he actually believes it. Birds can be imaginary friends right? Yeah. That's probably it.

By lunchtime, though, Gid and Sarah seem have started playing along; Sarah sees a squirrel and calls it Jane and says that she too can speak to the animals.

"This is Quickly" Says Sam, pointing to grackle on the window. "Mama, say hi to Quickly."

She waves a hello tentatively, and he smiles, satisfied.

Sammy is usually a happy child, easily complacent and doesn't really complain unless he feels something is truly wrong. But at dinner, even after the joy of the day, he is grumpy and snaps at his siblings irritably over who gets to sit where, and that his plate is greasy, and that his water tastes gross, and complains the whole time. His face is getting paler and greener and his forehead looks shiny with sweat.

"Sammy, you okay?" she asks finally. "Do you want to lie down?"

It's like an elastic band snapping back--Sam lurches forward over the table and almost gags, kealing over his meatloaf and roast vegetables.

His jaw is clenched tight and she can see him curling into himself and his wrists vibrating with tension. He has his eyes closed but he gives a small shaky nod.

"My back hurts," he tells her later, after she's ushered him up to his bed. There are still tears in his eyes and all his thin muscles are straining painfully. He looks at her, the way little boys should look at their mothers, as though she can fix this. Kiss all the pain away and make it better. She should. The quivering of his body from the pain seems to make it hurt even more.

She wants to cry for him.

She can't, though. Instead, she goes downstairs and fills up a tin bucket with warm water and finds a soft towel, soaking it. He's lying on his tummy when she returns, his fists clutching the bed sheet tightly and burying his face into his pillow.

"I'm gonna wash your back now, okay?" she says, squeezing the cloth in her fingers.

"Okay," he mumbles, muffled and quiet now.

Warm and damp, the cloth touches his back, brushing lightly. His limbs go taut and rigid, straight as a ruler.

A broken sort of mewling sound escapes from her little boy.

Darlene wishes they could afford a doctor.

The next three days Sam spends lying in his bed, weak, on his tummy, passed out from exertion or the pain, only strong enough to lift his head to swallow vegetable broth, or awake enough to go to the toilet. It's getting worse, gradually. Once, Sam is coherent enough to describe it. Like his spine is being ripped out of his back, is what he says, slowly being wrenched away and pulling the skin with it.

It takes two more weeks before the feathers finally appear.

**Author's Note:**

> This is technically a WIP, in the meantime any forms of encouragement would be appreciated! Also if anyone has any title suggestions because, truly, idk. 'Sunlight Echoes' is mostly a placeholder...
> 
> Thank you for reading! and if you liked this, you can leave a kudos, or check out my page on tumblr: mercialachesis :D


End file.
